


You give me a feeling

by ANTchan



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Getting Together, Let Din Djarin rest, M/M, Post-episode s02e01, Sharing a Bed, Soft Space Cowboy Cobb Vanth, Touch-Starved Din Djarin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:01:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28418040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ANTchan/pseuds/ANTchan
Summary: There’s something lonely about the sunsets on Tatooine.Cobb Vanth persuades him to stay for a little celebration in Mos Pelgo, and then for the evening.Din's heart doesn't need much convincing. Pure, unrepentant fluff.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Cobb Vanth
Comments: 45
Kudos: 347





	You give me a feeling

**Author's Note:**

> _Damn these soft cowboy types._
> 
> This is 8k of pure fluff to the tune of my favorite trope in this ship: Cobb Vanth convincing Din to stay the night so he can take care of him. Let Din Djarin rest please, preferably not in his cramped little bunk on his ship.
> 
> Hope you all enjoy the fic! A special thank you to rogueshadows for cheering this on and being a filthy, filthy enabler. You're the best Shannon <3
> 
> Title is from "Electricity" by Dua Lipa.

\--------------------1---------------------

There’s something oddly somber about the twin sunsets on Tatooine. It’s a gorgeous sight, Din could never deny that. Even through the helmet, the colors are breathtaking. As the suns begin to dive towards the horizon, the sky lights like a brilliant flame, the desert painted in golden light and purple shadows. In his years, Din has traveled to many planets, seen many sunsets - some far more strange or awe-inspiring - but none with the same sense of loneliness as Tatooine. 

Maybe it’s the isolation of the desert itself that makes the sunsets feel so solitary. Maybe it’s something far more personal that Din refuses to look at too closely; a reason why he can feel like an outlier even when surrounded by others.

Not for the first time, Din reflects that he should have never taken the marshal up on his offer to join the celebrations. He’d meant to bundle the kid and the armor back onto his speeder bike and make time back to Mos Eisley, had no intention whatsoever of involving himself with the people of Mos Pelgo any longer than necessary. It was the Way, if not in Creed, then in practice. As Mandalorians they didn’t _belong_ anywhere. And Din certainly didn’t belong here.

So why, then, had he caved in when the marshal had offered his hand and invited both Din and the Child to celebrate with them? Why had he not remained firm in the face of Cobb Vanth’s wry smile and welcoming gaze? 

A cheer goes up from around the bonfire in both Basic and Tusken, echoed in the laughter of the village children scurrying in and out of the lengthening shadows. This tentative peace is a rare sight. Din stays where he is, watching from the outskirts of the party, a cup of glowing blue spotchka balanced on his knee, and hopes that it will last. 

“Ebbbb,” a little gurgle at his feet draws Din’s thoughts away. The kid has stayed tucked close to his boot for most of the celebration, much as he had when they had stayed with the Tuskens nights ago. But now the Child peers at the children with a clear desire to join them.

Beneath his helmet, Din’s mouth curls into a smile. “Go on,” he says. The Child looks up at him, his ears flopping back. “You can go play. Just don’t go too far, alright?”

The Child perks up at that, babbling in the unintelligible way that he always has, and scurries off after the village children as fast as his stubby little legs can carry him. Din’s chuckle fades into the night air as he watches. Not for the first time, he wonders if his quest will hurt the kid in the long run, constantly uprooting them both across the galaxy in search of-- a safe place, other Mandalorians, a Jedi, the rest of the Child’s species. It’s always something.

“Hey there, this is supposed to be a party.” The low drawl heralds Vanth’s approach. His smile glimmers in the firelight, carrying a glowing bottle of spotchka in one hand and a full cup in the other. Now that he’s without the ill-fitting armor, the man seems smaller than before. Not frail, by any description, but somehow even lankier without the beskar. 

“It is,” Din hums.

“Yeah, then why are you being gloomy out here?” Vanth lowers himself onto the bench beside him, downing his drink quickly.

“You don’t know that.”

Vanth tips his head in Din’s direction. “Please, I don’t need to see under that helmet to feel you frowning in there.” He nudges Din’s arm with his elbow. The touch is casual, but still Din has to force back a flinch. So few people ever try to touch him outside of a fight. “You’re the guest of honor, Mando! Live a little. Drink a little. You haven’t even touched that spotchka.”

Din rolls his eyes inside the privacy of his helmet. “It’s going to stay that way.”

“What, not a drinking man?” When he doesn’t dignify that with an answer, Vanth twists in his seat to fix him with sharp eyes. “You really won’t take that thing off even to drink?”

“No.” Din unsuccessfully keeps the weariness out of his voice.

“You serious? That’s hardly fair.”

“This is the Way.” He expects further questioning, expects the confusion and the disbelief, and then the scorn. The questions, Din has long since grown tired of answering. At best, the confusion may come with acceptance, as it has for many of the people Din tentatively calls friends. At worst… Din is the outsider, and luckily he’ll be able to leave and never have to think of it again.

Instead, the marshal nods to himself, setting both his cup and the bottle in the sand at their feet. He sways a little as he levers himself into standing, his mouth pulling into a grin as Din watches expectantly. Vanth whips the red scarf from his neck with a flourish, shaking the material out and holding it up in front of Din’s visor. “Alright, go on then.”

Din blinks, leaning back slightly as his visor fills with red and black shadows. “Uh. What?”

The scarf flutters as Vanth gestures. “Take a drink. I’ll keep you covered. No one’s this far out and I ain’t lookin’ either. It’s wrong that you can’t even enjoy a drink after getting eaten to save our town.”

He’s so shocked by the, somewhat absurd, gesture that it knocks a laugh out of him. A quick glance to ensure that the marshal is correct and no one is nearby, and Din ducks his head, lifting his helmet up just enough to take a long drink from his cup. The spirit warms him almost immediately, leeching away some of the aches and pains from the battle. Once most of his cup is drained and the helmet is safely back in place, he signals for the marshal to step away. Vanth doesn’t replace his scarf, simply dropping back onto the bench and laying it across his knees. Din’s eyes are drawn to the now bare patch of skin at Vanth’s throat, watching the way the firelight sends shadows into the angle of his jaw. He only remembers to look away when the other man tips his head up and drains another shot of glowing alcohol. “That’s better!” Vanth chuckles, voice raspy from the drink. “We can’t have the hero of the village neglected at his own party.”

He scoffs. “I’m hardly the hero of anything. I did it for the armor, remember?”

“Mm, I remember. I remember that I could’ve just been shot on sight in Gido’s cantina, but you didn’t. Remember that you could’ve let the Tuskens kill me for bein’ an idiot and taken it then. You could’ve taken off at any time, left us all to the krayt dragon. Instead you went and made yourself bait for it, killed the thing yourself, and even got us this alliance with the Tuskens. Not a hero at all.”

Din shifts under the weight of his words, and under the steady gaze Vanth pins him with. “Whatever makes you feel better,” he says helplessly.

The marshal smiles, the same slow, knowing smile that had made something prickle at the back of Din’s neck on their first meeting. “You can’t fool me, partner. I’m damn good at reading people. And you? You’re a good man.”

He… can’t think of a response to that. Luckily, Vanth doesn’t seem to be waiting for one. They sit and watch the townspeople laugh and drink. The Child runs between groups of the village children, chasing a toy ball that they pass to him. He thinks he can see a couple of villagers crouched in the sand with a Tusken, who seems to be teaching them a drinking game played with bits of smoothed glass, stones, and empty cups.

Vanth covers him to take a drink twice more, and soon Din sinks into the relaxed warmth of a good drink. “So…” Vanth drawls at length. “Were you really gonna leave the kid with me if you didn’t come out of that dragon in a blaze of glory?” 

The spotchka must loosen his tongue, because Din finds himself answering rather than making any excuse to leave. “It wasn’t the plan. I’m trying to get him back to his people. But if I couldn’t do that…” He runs a gloved thumb around the rim of his cup. “You’re not the only one who can read people. You’re a good man too, Marshal.”

“Aw, hell, we nearly died at least twice today. You can call me Cobb, Mando.”

Din mouths the name, testing it silently on his tongue, and offers his hand. “Din Djarin.” His own name feels clumsy in his mouth. He can’t remember the last time he introduced himself to anyone. The only people currently in his life who know his name had learned it from the attack on Nevarro. The few seconds of silence are agonizing as Cobb looks back at him. And then his eyes spark in the light of the fire, his smile softening in genuine delight. Din finds himself transfixed, barely remembering to shake the man’s hand when it slides to grip his own. 

“Nice to know the name of the man who saved my home. Thank you, Din.”

Something warm squirms in his belly - he blames it on the drink and shrugs. But Cobb doesn’t relinquish his hand, instead turning it over in his own to peer at his vambrace. “Are you still covered in dragon muck?”

Din drags his hand away, face hot with embarrassment. “I wiped it off after the battle,” he says defensively.

“With what, a dry rag? I can still see it in the edgework. That can’t be comfortable.”

It’s not, but at least it doesn’t smell anymore. After clawing his way out of the krayt dragon’s innards, he’d thought the smell would never leave him. “It’s fine. I’ll clean the armor when we get back to our ship.”

“...Didn’t you say you came from Mos Eisley? That’s a full day’s ride away, at least. You’re not even going to find someplace to hold up and clean all that off tonight?”

“I wouldn’t have had to worry about it if someone hadn’t dragged me to this party,” Din retorts. He abandons his cup onto the sand at his feet and idly scrapes at the grime on his handguard. He’d been doing a good enough job at ignoring how the plating sticks to his under armor. But now that he’s forced to talk about it, the irritating feeling returns. Plus the sand that is unavoidable on this planet… 

He wants to be back on his ship. Or at the very least somewhere where he can shake the sand out.

Cobb chuckles softly, bracing both hands on his knees. “Well, we can fix that.” He pushes himself to stand and beckons Din to do the same. “Come on. I think we can trust these drunken fools not to get themselves killed tonight. Grab your kid and come with me.”

He makes no move to follow. “Come with you, where…?”

“To my place. You can change and get clean there.” Cobb smiles and reaches out to pat his shoulder. “Come on. I owe you more than just a wrecked old suit of beskar for all you’ve done for us.”

He shouldn’t, and yet Din finds himself rising to his feet, clenching his jaw past a multitude of aches and pains as he does. Cobb’s hand squeezes at his shoulder just above the pauldron, warm to match his grin, and a shiver works its way down Din’s spine. He turns away quickly, for no other reason than to avoid thinking about it. The kid is surrounded by a group of children close by. Din makes his excuses to the little creature before scooping him up. The Child squirms in his arms, whining a little as Din tells him to say goodnight to his new friends. “Sorry,” he says to the Child as they return to Cobb’s side. “It’s getting late for you, anyway.”

The Child fusses, but his eyes are drooping, his head dipping lower against Din’s chestplate.

“See? Time for bed, kid.”

“Pbbbbh,” the Child gurgles sullenly back at him.

“Heh, little sprout can bed down at my place while we get you cleaned up,” the marshal offers. “You both could stay the night, if you wanted.”

Another, inadvisable urge to take the man up on his invitation. He thinks that he should blame it on the spotchka, even though he’s barely even halfway to tipsy. What is it about Cobb Vanth that makes him want to throw caution to the wind? “Thank you for the offer. But we should move on; we’ve imposed on your village long enough.”

Still, Cobb beckons Din to follow him through the tiny village. “Ah, you ain’t putting me out none. Traveling through the desert in the dark isn’t exactly safe anyway.” Din doesn’t even get the chance to protest before Cobb holds up a hand. “We’ll talk more once you’re all cleaned up, alright?”

“Doesn’t sound like I have much of a choice.”

\--------------------2---------------------

The house Cobb leads them to is nothing short of tiny. A singular room of the home sits above the sands, a sort of storage area for weather gear and bits of equipment. There’s a couple of potted desert plants sitting on a storage box under the room’s only window, and Cobb rubs their thick leaves as he passes. Beyond the room is a narrow staircase taking them underground, directly into the cramped living space. There’s not much in the way of personal effects, but Din subtly studies the room as they descend into it. A tiny kitchen sits in a nook across the way, a worn metal table against the wall, a shallow recess in the wall lined with cushions. Above them, an open dome lets moonlight and wind into the room, a buzzing repulsor field keeping the sand out. 

Din stops at the bottom of the stairs, strangely frozen as Cobb ventures into his home, mystified as he unclips his holsters and belts, sets his blasters on a shelf by the stairs, and starts flicking on lights. He stands there in silence for so long that the Child starts to squirm in his arms. The sound of his fussing draws Cobb’s eyes back to him, laughing quietly at the kid’s displeasure.

The marshal gestures towards the couch, pulling a blanket out of a cubby in the wall. “You can put the kid down here. It should be nice and cozy for him while we work.”

He finally takes the offered blanket, spurred into movement as he swaddles the struggling child. Within moments the fussing dies down, turning into cooing as the kid burrows into the soft folds. “Time for bed, you little womp rat,” Din says fondly. The Child wriggles one tiny hand out of the blanket, patting Din’s hand as he settles the kid onto the couch. “I’ll be here, okay?”

The kid burbles up at him and is asleep in moments. 

“Lookit that, out like a light.” Din turns to find the marshal leaning his hip against the table, his body one long, elegant line, and his eyes bright. “Are we gonna wake him up if we work here?”

Din shakes his head. “No, not unless we start setting off explosions or firing blasters in here.”

“Well we’ve made it this far.” Cobb smiles lazily and goes over to a set of cabinets, pulling bottles and rags out of the drawers. “Come over here, then, and get those vambraces off.” 

Din stops halfway into a standing position, and immediately regrets it as the muscles in his back protest. He hisses, unable to keep it low enough to avoid it coming out of his vocabulator. “I can do it myself--” he starts. His head spins.

“You okay, partner?”

When had the marshal gotten so close? Cobb steadies him - needlessly, Din is _fine_ \- with a hand at his elbow, pulling him across the room and all but shoving him into a chair. “I’m fine,” he insists, but can’t find the will to rise back to his feet. The strain of the battle must finally be catching up with him. “I’ll be fine,” he amends. He tries to cover his moment of weakness by starting on his vambrace, undoing the straps with sluggish fingers. He still manages to set the piece on the table with great care before starting on the other.

He’s starting on his pauldrons when Cobb moves closer and sinks onto his knees in front of the chair. Din’s fingers slip across the surface of his pauldron. “What are you doing?” He feels his voice crack, and quickly clears his throat to hide it.

Cobb glances slyly up at him. “Helpin’ you with these greaves. You can’t tell me you’re able to lean down to get ‘em right now.” He reaches around the back of Din’s calf to get at the buckle, visibly biting back a smile as Din jumps at the touch.

“Uh.” Din swallows past the sudden tightness in his throat. “You don’t… have to do that.”

“Maybe I’d like to.”

He can’t think of a way to argue that, a worrying trend when it comes to Cobb Vanth. He’s not even sure he wants to, which is almost just as terrifying. Cobb works quickly with deft fingers, expertly removing each of his greaves and the extra knee plate on his left. He doesn’t pause, not calling attention to it when his leg jerks or when Din’s hands fumble with his ammo belt. It’s only when his hands skim just below the armor on Din’s thigh that he pauses, flicking a questioning look up at him. And waits.

Logically, he knows that Cobb can’t see his face, but it feels like he’s looking right through Din. Like he can hear Din’s heart hammering against his breastplate. He nods after a long moment, and Cobb leans up on his knees, quickly undoing the thigh plates. His hands don’t linger - a blessing, because Din is sure he would shake clear out of his skin if he had.

“Thank you,” he murmurs when Cobb is finished. 

“Think nothin’ of it.” The marshal rises to his feet with a little groan, armor bundled in one hand and rubbing at his knee with the other.

Desperate to no longer be the center of Cobb’s focus, Din asks, “Are _you_ alright, Marshal?” 

Cobb huffs gently and places with armor plates onto the table with the same care with which he’d removed them. “Yeah, yeah. No cure for these busted old knees. You just got aches or are you hidin’ injuries under that suit?”

“No. Nothing more than bruises and the battle catching up with me.” Just admitting to that much feels foreign. He’s unused to anything more than patching up his wounds with the medical supplies on the _Crest_ and just… dealing with the rest of it. Thankfully, Cobb doesn’t push him anymore on the subject. He passes Din a rag and a bottle of what turns out to be solvent, and together they work on cleaning dried viscera from the beskar. Cobb fills the silence by telling him about what life is like in Mos Pelgo, about the comings and goings of the townsfolk. None of this seems to require a response from Din, fortunately, and the marshal’s voice becomes a peaceful backdrop to the work. 

“Can’t believe we’ll be counting the raiders as friends of the village from here on,” Cobb ends his musing. “Can’t thank you enough for that, either.”

“The peace will last as long as the villages uphold it,” is all Din adds.

“Oh, they will. We’ve had our skirmishes in the past, but fightin’ on the same side for once… it goes a long way.”

“You thought they were monsters before today.”

Cobb stops scrubbing the armor, lifting his eyes to Din’s through the visor. “Well,” he says after a stretch of silence, “maybe I was wrong about that. It’s been known to happen now and again.” Din accepts the response with a nod, that quickly becomes a stifled gasp as he leans at the wrong angle. He hurries to cover it by snatching up the next piece of armor, only to have Cobb’s hand close around his own gloved one and lower it back to the table. “Hey. There’s a sonic through that door there. It also has a unit that you can put that suit in and get it clean. The door locks. You can get clean and relax in there while I finish up with your armor.” And Din must hesitate for a second too long, because Cobb frowns. “Swear I won’t look in there. Or run off with your kid,” he finishes in a joking tone.

“That’s not the problem,” Din says. “You’re really offering to clean the armor?”

“‘Course. I know how to take care of it.”

Din stares at him pointedly. “The armor you gave me says differently.”

“It was corroded like that when I bought it off the Jawas! No amount of scrubbing would shine it back up. Damn thing might as well have come out of a sarlacc.” Cobb shoves one of the bottles and rags into his hand and waves him in the direction of the refresher. “Now get going! Get out of here, shoo.” 

He does as he’s told, with a small smile curving his mouth under the helmet. Not that Cobb will ever know.

Then again, with the soft laugh that follows Din out of the room, maybe he does.

The refresher is a cramped, utilitarian space, with just enough room for Din to move freely. But the door locks securely and the buzz of the vents drowns out the world outside of this room. It’s easier to pretend that the man he had been ready to shoot days ago isn’t on the other side of the door, tending to his armor.

He tries not to apply any significance to that. Cobb Vanth isn’t Mandalorian, regardless of the fact that he’s been walking around in borrowed armor for years. Offering to clean the armor for him is an act of gratitude, as it would be to most peoples in the galaxy. That’s all it is, and Din definitely shouldn’t assign any affection to the task.

When he finally dares to take off the helmet and look at his face in the smudged mirror, he’s horrified that the face looking back at him is faintly red. “ _Dank farrik,_ ” he mutters, setting the helmet and his supplies down on the counter with a ringing thud. There’s no one to accuse him of scrubbing his helmet with extra vehemence, at least. Once the beskar shines under the light in the refresher, Din sets it aside along with his pouches and ammo belts, and starts to remove the rest of his under armor. Watching his bruised body be revealed in the mirror is always a strange experience - but it happening in someone’s home, not in the tiny utility mirror on the _Crest_ , is even stranger. He can’t help but glance over his shoulder at the door, making sure the lock is securely in place.

_‘Don’t think about it,’_ he reminds himself. Don’t think about the man on the other side of the door, diligently caring for his armor, the proof of his warrior’s soul and his creed. And definitely don’t think about those eyes on him.

He tosses his under armor into the cleaning unit and steps into the sonic shower before he lets his thoughts wander down those paths.

The pulses of heat from the sonic help to soothe his aches and pains, and after using the tub of cleansing powder to blot up the last of the grime and sweat, Din feels almost human again. By the time he exits the sonic, he can take a full breath without it catching in his ribs, even if his muscles still protest softly.

His under armor is clean as well, warm against his skin as he slips it back on. The synthetic plating he leaves for now, instead digging through his pouches for his hygiene kit so he can give himself a quick shave and clean his teeth. Anything to feel less like something a krayt dragon spat out. And maybe something that would be worth the marshal's intrigued glances.

Din gazes at his reflection in the mirror, allowing himself a final once over before replacing his helmet. Oddly, the weight of the beskar isn't the immediate comfort that it usually is. His heart still races anxiously in his chest as he gathers the extra armor plates, his gloves, and his equipment

pouches.

When he enters the living space once more, he feels strangely exposed without his extra layers. The smile that lights up Cobb's face when he turns to him does nothing to help. He hasn’t moved from the table since Din had left him there, the pieces of now shining beskar spread out around him. The red scarf has disappeared and his sleeves rolled up - presumably during his work. The line of his body is more relaxed, nearly sprawled in his chair with long legs stretched out in front of him. 

There’s something softer about him here, in his own space. Not the stalwart, deceptively calm persona that he affects on the battlefield.

"You gonna just stand there for the rest of the night?" Cobb teases. 

Din realizes he’s been standing in the doorway of the refresher, his belongings bundled up in his arms, staring at the marshal like an awestruck child. “Sorry,” he mutters. “Where do you want me to…?” Cobb beckons him forward so he can arrange his armor and effects into a neat pile. He watches Din closely as he inspects each piece. 

“Well?” Cobb asks after the silence stretches on for a while. “Does my work pass muster?”

It more than passes, for all that Din had given him grief for the state of the borrowed armor. The beskar gleams in the light, as beautifully as if Din had spent the time to properly polish it himself. Even more beautiful, though that’s a completely irrational thought. “It’s alright,” is all he says aloud.

“I’ll take it!” Cobb hauls himself to his feet. “It’ll be safe here - no one out here to steal it and anyone who could isn’t dumb enough to try. How about we get you that place to sleep? You look a little dead on your feet, Din Djarin. You shouldn’t be on a speeder tonight, and the kid is already out.”

It says something that Din doesn’t even try to argue it this time. He turns, fully preparing to head for the couch and bunk with the Child, but sure hands grab him firmly by the shoulders. They move with careful surety, not quickly enough to alarm him but without hesitation. Even still, Din still jumps under the touch. “Nah, come on. I’m not about to let you sleep on the couch.”

“I can,” Din starts, but Cobb shakes his head.

“After today? If I let you sleep on that couch, you ain’t gonna be able to move by tomorrow morning.” His hands stay on Din’s shoulders, pulling him gently to the remaining closed door. “There’s a mostly comfortable bed just in the other room.”

“Mostly comfortable?” Din mumbles.

“Only the best for the town hero, sweetheart. But I won’t lie and tell you it’s anything fancy.” 

Din stops listening halfway through. _‘Sweetheart?’_ he mouths, both incredulous and a touch panicked. That’s the only way he can explain the jolt of adrenaline that shoots through him at the word. He’s so confused - vexed… thrilled? - by it that he forgets to protest as Cobb guides him into the next room. 

There are no sky domes here, nothing to let in light except for that being cast from the other room. The helmet lets Din see through the darkness with a bit more ease than his normal vision. Like the main room, there isn’t much - a bed, a desk, some shelves. Though what he thinks is some kind of natural glass formation sits on one of the shelves with a few spare things. A holobook on the desk, or what Din guesses might be equipment for maintaining blasters. It’s humble in a way that Din understands well, coming from a life that’s too transitory to allow him to accumulate things.

The bed is… well. It’s definitely bigger than Din’s bunk back on the _Crest_. And looks warmer too. 

“I know it ain’t much…”

“Marshal, the last room I slept in this big was a storage barn with a bunk thrown in.”

Cobb tries to disguise a laugh with a cough, and doesn’t quite accomplish the task. “Now, I don’t go by Marshal in the bedroom, _Mandalorian--_ oof!” Din elbows him sharply in the ribs, his face burning inside his helmet. “Alright, alright, don’t need to get feisty on me now. The room is yours, if you want it.”

Din glances around the bedroom again. “And where are you planning on sleeping?”

Cobb shrugs. “Figured I could go bunk with Gido. Give you and the little one some privacy.”

“I’m not going to kick you out of your home, Marshal.” At the arch look he receives, Din sighs. “ _Cobb_. You don’t have to leave.” An idea is already forming in his head, one that makes his stomach do flips. “I’m used to sleeping in a ship’s bunk,” is all he manages to say.

The few moments it takes for Cobb to read between his words are more harrowing than battling the krayt dragon or facing down a legion of stormtroopers. Cobb’s brows arch high, looking Din over with a new intent now. “You sayin’ what I think you are? I didn’t think you’d be comfortable with…” He gestures vaguely.

Thankfully, the helmet obscures Din’s hard swallow. “It’s… fine.” He immediately despises the hitch in his voice. “The bed’s plenty big enough.”

“Don’t know if I’d go that far,” Cobb counters, eyeing the bed. “If you’re sure.”

He is, even though the decision comes with an adrenaline rush fit for battle. He nods, and Cobb doesn’t question him on it any further, not even with his glance as he pulls the door shut behind them. Instantly the room is thrown into darkness, barely discernible even to the low-light vision in Din’s helmet. The weight lifts from Din’s shoulders just a bit, feeling less exposed in the pitch darkness. He wonders if Cobb knew that would be the result when he closed the door. If he did, Cobb doesn’t call any attention to it, his dim silhouette stumbling blindly through his own bedroom towards what is - presumably - his preferred side of the bed. “You wanna pick a side?” he asks, voice carrying strangely in the room.

“No,” Din can’t bring himself to say above a murmur. “Ah, Cobb, you’re going to--” The man fumbles almost directly into the bedside table with a sharp curse that breaks into laughter. 

“Well, at least I don’t have anythin’ worth breakin’,” Cobb jokes at his own expense. He sinks carefully onto the edge of the bed and bends to unlace his boots in the dark. It’s only when his hands come back up to pull his loose shirt open that Din jolts into movement, fighting down a flush as he maneuvers around to the other side of the bed. He just about manages it with only scuffing the end of his boot on the corner of the low bed. The only sound in the room is the rustling of cloth and the jingling of buckles, a painfully awkward silence that has Din wanting to sink right into the floor.

“So…”

Din’s hands slip on the buttons of his under armor. “Yeah?”

“Now, you can tell me if this’s crossin’ a line and I won’t be offended or anything. Can tell me to knock it off and we’ll never mention it again. But uh, it’s pretty dark in here. There won’t be any light gettin’ in come morning. You really don’t have to wear that thing all night. It can’t be comfortable.”

Din goes very still, barely daring to breathe. His hands are frozen on his under armor.

“...Din?” Cobb calls softly. “Hey, I mean it, just say the word and we’ll pretend I didn’t even open my fool mouth.”

He can’t find the voice to answer, his mind spiralling down a path of dangerous impulses and rationalizations. He shouldn’t. To agree would be bending his Creed in such a blatant way. And at the same time… he could justify removing the helmet to sleep, where no one would actually see him. 

Damnit, he feels like an initiate all over again, whispering with his peers about how they could bend the rules of the Creed and get away with it.

“You won’t look?” To ask seems childish, especially in the way he can’t bring his voice above a murmur. 

The response comes immediately, without the slightest hint of hesitation. “I swear. I’ll wake you up before I go anywhere so you can put it back on in the morning, deal?” There’s no judgment in Cobb’s voice, nothing that suggests he’s merely humoring Din’s “outlandish” beliefs. And it’s that, in the end, that has Din taking in a long breath before he pulls the helmet off.

Without the aid of the visor, the room is completely black. But despite that reassurance, Din’s heart pounds in his chest as he gropes blindly to set the helmet on the floor within easy reach. He tries not to listen to the rustling behind him, trying to focus completely on removing his under armor and the last of his layers. It takes everything not to let his hands shake by the time he’s down to his undershirt and pants, as exposed to anyone as he’s been in… a long time. 

He misjudges the size of the bed as he’s sliding under the blankets. His hand brushes up against skin and he flinches back with a hurried apology. The blankets are cool against his skin, raising gooseflesh along his arms, but there’s no mistaking the blazing source of heat mere inches from him.

“Aw, don’t worry about it. I ain’t shy or anything.” Hearing the man’s voice without the filter of the helmet comms has a different sort of chill racing down Din’s spine. His tone is deceptively casual, but in the darkness, Din thinks he hears something fond there as well. Not having a clue what to say, Din sighs and presses his face into the pillow, before quickly deciding that was a poor choice. The fabric smells like sun, blaster oil, and the desert wind, and all it does is make him wonder if Cobb smells the same way. 

Fingertips grazing, featherlight, along his arm break him from his thoughts. “Hey,” Cobb says when his startled gasp echoes through the room, “this okay?”

Din starts to nod, before he remembers that Cobb can’t see him any better than he can see Cobb. “Y-es,” he nearly stammers.

“Okay. You can tell me if it isn’t, alright, sweetheart?”

This time there’s no hiding his shiver at the absurd little endearment.

“Yeah, I thought you liked that,” Cobb hums knowingly.

Din reaches across the bed to shove him. His fingers tangle in Cobb’s undershirt, feeling the laughter that shakes the marshal’s whole body before he hears it. “Shh,” Din hisses. “You’ll wake the kid.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Cobb grasps at Din’s wrist, holding him there rather than trying to dislodge him. Even that light touch burns along his skin like fire, with all the heat of the desert’s twin suns. Without thinking, Din’s hand relaxes its grip on the man’s shirt, simply letting it press there against his chest. Cobb’s laughter subsides into contemplative quiet. Din still doesn’t move his hand, and Cobb doesn’t try to push him away. “Hm, I’m not readin’ this wrong, am I?”

“No.” The answer slips out before Din can stop it. He curses himself the moment he opens his mouth. Not because it isn’t _true_ , but because now he can’t _take it back._ It’s been spoken into existence now, the way he’s drawn to Marshal Cobb Vanth of this little village in the desert. Admitting to it means he can no longer ignore it, can no longer pretend that he and the kid are going to leave and never think about this place or these people again.

Saying it means he can no longer tell himself that he’s not going to think of laying in this bed in the dark, with Cobb’s fingers caressing up his shoulder.

Those questing fingers eventually find his throat, a worn palm cupping at the curve of his jaw. Din stifles an almost wounded sound in his throat. “Wanna come here?” Cobb asks, voice soft in the darkness. His other hand tugs at Din’s wrist, suggesting but making no attempt to actually move him. He lets the question hang in the air, letting Din make the decision to start inching closer before the hand cupping his face slides back into his hair and pulls him the rest of the way. 

For a moment there’s only uncertainty, a little thrill that is equal parts want and fear. His mind supplies all the ways that this could go in the short time it takes him to slide across the bed towards the other man. Things that he hasn’t done with another person since he _was_ that fumbling initiate, sneaking his way around the rules in enclosed spaces. But then he’s being guided so that his head rests on Cobb’s shoulder, his face pressed into his shirt, and the tension abruptly releases. It all comes rushing out in one long, shaking breath, his body slowly relaxing into the firm, lanky line of Cobb’s.

“There you are.” Cobb’s impossibly warm voice is all but right in his ear now, and it takes everything not to squirm. “It’s almost painful watching you, lookin’ like you’ve never relaxed a day in your life. Been wanting to do this for days.”

“I relax,” is all Din can reply. It sounds petulant to his own ears.

“Mhmm, sure. That’s why you feel like you’ve got a spine made of knots.” A hand slides down his back, perhaps to demonstrate. Din can only concentrate on the way nimble fingers easily find exactly where his back has been protesting the most, digging in until he gasps. “See? If I could convince you to stick around for a while, I’d get you nice and comfortable here, work out all that tension for ya.” His voice drops low and sly, and he’s close enough for Din to feel the way he grins when Din only scoffs at his horrible innuendo. The banter, at least, keeps Din from focusing too much on the light touches and how _close_ they are. 

“Maybe I could be convinced,” he says.

Cobb wraps an arm more comfortably around his waist, settling them together. “Oh yeah? Well, I’ll have to work on that.” And any hope Din has of appearing unaffected by that promise is shattered when the man turns and presses a sweet kiss to his temple, just light enough that it could be construed as accidental, if one of them chose to write it off that way.

Except Din really doesn’t want to. It’s _nice_ , to be held like this, for the first time in far too long. The simple pleasure and warmth and Cobb’s fingers carding gently through his hair soothes something in him. There’s no expectation in the touches, nothing to pressure Din for anything more than he’s willing to give. And that, he thinks, is the crux of it all.

The last time he had felt any connection like this, it had been on Sorgan, and she’d asked for things he couldn’t give.

Maybe it’s that lack of expectation that causes him to act. Cobb doesn’t react with anything more than a sleepy hum when Din reaches up between them to touch his face, fingers scraping gently at his beard and tipping his face down so Din can press a clumsy kiss to the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t even have time to be embarrassed over his fumbling, because Cobb turns to kiss him properly, sighing into it.

The kiss is a slow and gentle thing, a secret in the dark that sends a thrill down his spine. Din surges closer, a little too eager, the barest tremble in his grasping hands. His nervous energy is soothed by a hand stroking down his spine, a gentle, “Shh,” against his mouth, until their kisses ease back into sweetness once more. Eventually Din leans back, his lips tingling. “Thanks,” he breathes.

“Think I should be thanking you for that one.” Cobb’s voice sounds just as hitched as his own.

“No, just… thank you.”

He feels the bed shift as Cobb shrugs. “Sure.” He doesn’t understand, clearly, and that’s alright. Din wouldn’t be able to put any of his nebulous thoughts into words anyway.

They trade a few more kisses in the safety of the darkness, nothing more intense than that, until Din drifts off with his head against Cobb’s shoulder.

\--------------------3---------------------

Din blinks into consciousness quickly without a clear cause, just as he usually does. The only difference being that, for once, he feels rested and isn’t crammed inside his small bunk on the _Razor Crest_. That and the fact that the everpresent hum of the _Crest_ ’s engines is conspicuously absent is what has his mind catching up to him. He can’t help but freeze, taking stock of his surroundings.

They’d shifted at some point in the night. Din has flipped over onto his other side, his first view when he opens his eyes being the barely lit wall above the desk. Against his back is a line of warmth, the ridge of an arm not his own under his pillow. The light in the room sends his heart racing, though he soon finds that the room is still heavily in shadow, illuminated by only the faintest crack in the doorframe. And the deep, even breathing behind him assures him that his current bed partner isn’t awake to take advantage of it.

Din pushes himself up onto an elbow and turns slowly, half afraid that his shifting will wake the marshal. Cobb has rolled onto his back at one point in the night, his lanky form now sprawled across the bed. One arm is tucked up under Din’s pillow, the other draped across his stomach. For a while, Din just watches him like that, peaceful in sleep and his silver hair hopelessly mussed and faint creases from the pillow on his cheek. 

The memory of last night’s kisses linger as Din watches him. Din has no idea how long they’ve been asleep, or how much longer Cobb will sleep unawares. Drawn by the memory, he leans down, balancing on a carefully placed hand by Cobb’s ribs, and brushes a kiss to sleep-parted lips.

This is something completely unknown to him - the idea of waking up to someone, the luxury of kissing a sleeping partner. Or kissing someone awake, as the case turns out to be. He pulls away the moment Cobb starts to move. His hand goes over the man’s eyes, feeling the flutter of lashes against his palm. “Mmwha’?” Cobb mumbles.

Din smiles at the sluggish way Cobb tries to turn his head. He never thought it would be endearing to watch someone fight their way back from sleep. “Morning,” he says, keeping his voice soft. “Keep your eyes closed, just for a bit.”

“‘Kay…” Din hesitates after feeling the man close his eyes once more, wondering just how he got to the place where he unquestionably trusts a man he’d met mere days ago to keep his word. A half-asleep man, no less. But when he takes his hand away, Cobb’s eyes remain closed. He rewards him with a caress along his brow, just starting to move away when Cobb frowns. “Hey, wait, c’mere.” One hand reaches out for him, blindly searching in the general direction of his face. Din obliges, ducking his head until the other man hooks a hand around the back of his neck with a satisfied hum, and lets himself be guided down.

No, that’s a lie. Din goes eagerly, with only the barest tug, balancing himself over the other man to kiss him. Cobb holds him there, kissing him slow and deep, almost lazily. Callused fingers tease up the back of his neck into his hair at the same time Cobb flicks at his lower lip with the tip of his tongue, and Din melts into the embrace. 

By the time Cobb finally releases him, Din feels like his world has been knocked off its axis once more. And he must sense that, the smug bastard, because Cobb grins even with his eyes closed. “Now there’s a good mornin’.”

“I’ve half a mind to shove you right out of this bed.”

“Mm. Worth it.” And then Cobb turns over onto his front, tucking the pillow close to his face. 

Din waits a few more moments, only for Cobb to remain still and his breathing even. He half suspects the man has just fallen back asleep then and there. His eyes trace the graceful path of Cobb’s spine, watching the rise and fall of his breath for a while. His eyes linger on a geometric tattoo inked in black on the back of his neck, all hard lines and angles, like a cross between a star map and a circuit diagram. There’s also the edge of a scar peeking out from the back of his shirt, a raised, almost surgically straight line right between his shoulder blades. A story there, perhaps.

Eventually, he grabs his helmet from the floor beside the bed and stands. Back in the safety and privacy of the beskar, Din smiles unabashedly at the picture Cobb makes sprawled out on the sheets. Not even opening the door and letting the early morning light into the room does anything to stir him. It can’t be much past dawn, if the coolness of the house is any indication.

Back in the main room of the house, Din finds large, dark eyes blinking at him from the heap of blankets on the couch. “Morning, kid. We’re going to leave in a bit.”

The Child burbles at him, his ears flapping as he pokes his head out from the blankets. He emerges slowly, watching Din from the couch while he goes to collect the pieces of his armor. Somewhere between Din slipping on his boots and bending to fasten his greaves, the kid disappears from his perch. Din whips back upright, only to find the little imp has snuck over to the house’s tiny kitchen, in the process of trying to reach for one of the compartments. “Hey!” he hisses. “Don’t touch that. I’ve got ration packs for you--”

The Child utters something that sounds suspiciously like a raspberry at him.

He abandons his task, swiftly going over and scooping the Child up before he can cause any trouble. The kid squeals unhappily anyway, stubbornly reaching for the kitchen compartments. “I guess we could stay for breakfast,” Din relents with a sigh. It hadn’t been his plan to leave without telling Cobb, anyway. He peers at the closed cabinets of the tiny kitchen himself, absently stroking back the fine hair on the kid’s head. “We can’t eat without our host,” he explains. The Child blinks up at him and Din kneels to set him on his feet. “Why don’t you go wake him up?”

That seems to get the kids attention. He runs off as fast as his tiny feet can carry him. Din listens to the rustling of what he hopes is the kid climbing up onto the bed.

The startled grunt that follows is less promising. “Whoa, hey,” comes the half-awake slur. “What’s up, little sprout?”

Din smiles and goes back to his armor.

Yeah, staying for a bit longer won’t hurt anything.

**END.**


End file.
